


all my own stunts

by lamour88



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-08-03 09:30:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16323668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamour88/pseuds/lamour88
Summary: Post-Lethal White.Since Charlotte seems destined to return in some way, I wanted to try and tackle that.Thanks for reading!





	1. Chapter 1

 

“Do you want a glass of water?” Charlotte slipped out of bed, her hands smoothing and gathering her glistening black hair so that it fell alluringly over one bare shoulder. Their eyes locked in the mirror of her dressing table, and she smiled at his reflection.

“No.” Strike lay staring at the ceiling, thinking longingly of the cigarettes that sat in his jacket pocket downstairs. “Thanks, though,” he called after her as she padded out of the room, still naked and not bothering to grab a robe.

It felt like a physical struggle sometimes, to stop himself from descending into the toxic mix of self-loathing and doubt that was increasingly threatening to overtake him. Lately it seemed to set into his very limbs, aching and weighing him down.

There was something about his and Charlotte’s reunion that had felt inevitable and fated. The high of being together again, of making each other come apart in just the way they knew how, was almost like nothing else. The love hadn’t gone, he was sure of it, nor had their shared history and humour, although the bloom of old jokes did start to wear thin after a few weeks. The obsessiveness returned quite easily, (‘like riding a bike’ he’d noted wryly to Ilsa, before she’d refused to talk to him anymore about his relationship), the compulsion to be privy to her ever-changing desires, it was all still there.

Of course, as anticipated, they’d already hit those horrible lows… the insultingly obvious and pointless lies, the painful cuts from their past that were dredged up for fun. Naturally, he had expected the rollercoaster when he agreed to take her back, inexplicably willing to ride between the two extremes again. Their relationship perfectly fit in the storm of his life, he’d realized. Deep in his psyche, he was so accustomed to trauma and self-sabotage, that when it beckoned for him he eventually had to answer.

The problem… the problem was that, more often than not now, there existed a middle ground in which Charlotte and Strike increasingly found themselves. And it was his fault, he could tell. It was as though there had been something inside of him, that Charlotte had once laid claim to, only for her to return and find it was not where she left it.

Was it a cliche, to wonder if maybe something had irrevocably changed, since the last time they’d lived in each others’ minds?

Being fully invested with Charlotte again, sometimes Strike felt as thought he’d just regretfully awoken from particularly good dream, the memory of it slowly slipping away as he tried to grasp at what it was exactly that he was losing now that he had Charlotte. Sensations of something so warm and different tickled and teased his memory.

The soft thud at the end of the bed startled him. His cigarettes. Charlotte was standing there, winking as she moved over to her side with a glass of water.

“I could tell you wanted a smoke.”

“Sorry. Trying to give it up.”

She laughed. “I’m sure.”

Charlotte walked into the ensuite and he heard the shower turn on. He decided to put off the smoke until he himself had showered and could go outside, alone for a bit. He needed a bit of time to think about tonight.

Tonight: a cursory surveillance at a property they suspected of being purchased to launder money… a party in which art was being auctioned with perhaps the same means and ends… and that was just one piece of a larger puzzle.

It was meant to be routine. Robin would be there (he tried to ignore the oddly euphoric feeling in his chest at the thought— he hadn’t seen her in five long days), along with their newest freelance hire, Tom Nilson. Tom was young, energetic, good-natured… all things that Strike tried very hard to not let rankle him. Robin would often catch his eye over the desk and smile, shaking her head imperceptibly to tell him, via mind meld, to just keep quiet, as Tom rattled off another elaborate plan that always involved the highest stakes possible.

Strike had originally meant to attend the party alone; he vaguely knew the hosts— through Charlotte incidentally— and managed weeks ago to get a haphazard invite, the kind that no one expected him to act on. But of course, no one involved was yet aware they were being surveilled.

***

Robin had been sure she should accompany him, which would of course be helpful, but how—

“We’ll go together, me and you, and Strike can come later,” Tom had said as he packed up his rucksack on Thursday night. “Robin and I can front as a couple. I’ve made my way into posh parties countless times, it’s old hand. But much more difficult to do on your own. We’ll be newly engaged or something, always works, trust me.”

Strike swayed his head to try and catch what he was sure would be Robin’s eye roll, but instead she seemed, to his surprise, to be considering it. “That’d be good,” she said slowly. “Think how well we could all spread out. I want to get eyes on Decaire’s mistress—”

“I can pick you up at 7 on Sunday,” Tom interjected, and at this Strike raised a hand.

“Hang on, I’ll have to think it over,” he mumbled, gathering his things and moving back towards his office. “It might seem an easy operation, but this is still sensitive, alright? We can’t just go rushing in just hoping it’ll work out. Let me think on it. I’ll send you both with instructions.”

He disappeared behind his office door, although could still hear Tom and Robin whispering to each other. There was a brief rustle as Tom gathered his things and left.

Just as he’d hoped, a few moments after Tom’s footsteps disappeared down the stairs, Robin opened his door and walked in the office, smiling. “Hiya.”

He felt himself returning her grin with a sense of warmth towards her that unnerved him. She had her jacket on, clearly ready to go, but for one desperate moment he wished simply that she could sit and stay, albeit for no real reason. Perhaps, he thought, some off-season storm could blow in and somehow strand her here for the night. All he wanted, he realized, was just to have her nearby, just to talk with her for a while, about nothing in particular. With an onslaught of undercover work taking her away more often that not, Robin had been increasingly absent from the office.

He watched as she walked over to him. “I wouldn’t trust Tom’s claims on party crashing, by the way," he said, "You’ll have to prepare, and have some idea of a guest who had an invite but won’t be there… they’ll have mentioned the party to you… and as for this relationship—”

She propped herself against his desk, still smiling wryly. “Oh, we’ve got it all worked out. Just got engaged over Christmas. He plans to buy me an obscure neo-impressionist oil painting to celebrate.”

“What a story for the grandkids.” Strike leaned back in his chair.

“Listen,” she said, her fingers gripping the edge of his desk. “I thought we could meet up before the party on Sunday. I won’t see you for the rest of this week since I’ll be undercover in Brighton until Saturday and… there’s some things I’ve found. I don’t want to loop Tom in just yet. We could grab lunch at the pub near mine. It’s just some research I’ve been gathering… social media postings, you know.”

Digging into the case uninterrupted… over chips and pints… with just Robin? “Sounds perfect.”

“Yeah?” She seemed, somehow, surprised. But happy. Her eyes lit up in a way he realized he hadn’t seen in quite a while. For a moment he tried, desperately, to think of something else he might say that could make her look that way again, but drew up short.

“Yeah. Well… I’ll email you, confirm the timing for everything.” He took a breath. “I’m at Charlotte’s all weekend I expect, so I’ll catch a car from there.”

The faintest reaction flickered across Robin’s face, but she caught herself quickly. “Oh, great.” she laughed. “A car. With a driver. Very posh.”

Strike shifted uncomfortably. He’d said it without thinking; normally Charlotte’s attempts at pushing her privileges and social shortcuts onto him failed, which was of course a source of constant tension. But the car and driver proved useful given his leg— an easy way to maneuver London when he was on a case and didn’t want to risk someone noting his plates, or when he’d be drinking, or would need to move quickly from location to location.

Robin was looking wistful. “I almost miss driving across London to pick you up in the Land Rover.” She pushed herself up from the desk. “Text me Sunday, then.”

***

He’d mentioned it offhand to Charlotte that Friday night— he’d be leaving early on Sunday, working lunch, then an event at an estate nearby. She’d only nodded nonchalantly and sipped her wine, her hand drawing enticing circles on his upper thigh.

On Saturday she’d noted that he’d probably want use of the car for his evening work, wouldn’t he? She’d let the driver know, so where was it he was going exactly? Now, he wouldn't be going to the Decaire’s annual art auction? She’d been invited but declined of course, because she’d anticipated spending the evening with him. And now she almost wished she was going, boring thought it was, just so they could spend the night together. But who was under surveillance? She couldn’t know details, of course, yes, she understood. But was it John Decaire himself? Because she knew his wife, Lily, quite well.

On Sunday her mood was unreadable. It seeped under his skin, left him a bit jumpy. She even took a call with Jago in the morning, (last minute custody negotiations), or so she claimed. It wasn’t until noon that she appeared, climbing into his lap and biting softly at his earlobe. Everything that she had at her disposal, she used, every trick she’d learned that turned him inside out, until they were both laughing and panting, half naked together. No one, he was sure, could know him the way she did. And her attention, when she decided to pour it on after withholding it, was intoxicating.

“Fuck”, he said, just as they broke apart from another languid kiss. “I’ve got Robin.”

“Sorry?”

“Robin. In 20 minutes. Look… we’ll continue later”.

She pouted, pulling him back down. “i don’t get to see you tonight, and then probably not for another week. Hang on, just wait for a moment— you’ll see Robin tonight, won’t you? And then again tomorrow morning. And all day… seeing her now, it couldn’t possibly wait?”

“Charlotte,” he groaned, partly out of frustration, partly because she was now lowering herself to her knees between his legs, still with that same pout, her eyes fixed on his.

“Please? Just this once… just let one thing go?”

He shut his eyes tightly. “Fine… yes. Pass me my phone. I need to send a quick text.”

***

And so he found himself, hours later, lying in Charlotte’s room, trying to shake off the cloud that had descended over him. Robin had never replied to his text, but at least he’d have eyes on her in an hour at the party.

Yes, he’d had to postpone their lunch, but she hadn’t made it sound urgent, and surely he was due some personal time after all these years, when certainly everyone else had taken it when needed.

He dressed quickly, efficiently, checking for his wallet and phone and then grabbing a tie from the strange but convenient collection Charlotte had set aside for him. He was just tying the black silk when Charlotte emerged from the ensuite, walking swiftly across the room in a strapless dark blue dress, her hair twisted in an effortless low bun.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re fucking not.”

She looked at him, eyes wide. “What’s the matter?”

“You’ve already intruded enough for one day,” he said darkly. “I gave up lunch for you, so—“

“Intruded?” Charlotte’s voice was dangerously low and calm. “Don’t play it that way. I’m always the one ruining things for you, aren’t I? Anything to avoid looking at y—”

“Fine,” he said sharply, wanting to avoid another deep dive into Charlotte’s attempts at psychoanalysis that he knew were coming. “We had the afternoon, that’s the point.”

“It’s not about that.” She was already fastening a glittering bracelet to her wrist. “I’d like to go. My friends will be there, and I was invited. And I can help.”

He snorted. “Help? That’s not happening.”

“Well, then fine, I’ll be the quiet and dutiful arm candy.” She turned to face him. “Does it not make more sense for us to show up together, as though I dragged you there? Why would Cormoran Strike take a sudden interest in high society parties and an art auction unless to be there at the behest some seedy client? That’s how _they’ll_ all see it, is what I'm saying.”

He stared, something like fatigue settling in and absorbing any potential retort. He grabbed his cigarettes and walked from the room without a word, but he saw her smile as he did so. They both knew that she had won.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kudos and comments. There's some sort of glitch that won't let me reply to all comments right now, but thanks! I really appreciate it!

It was what he had been dreading for the last hour: the look on Robin’s face when they entered the room and spotted each other across the crowded foyer. He had readied himself for it, of course, and yet the reality still managed to exceed all expectations. There was no preparing for that horrible swoop in his stomach that met the slow blink of disappointment in her eyes as they flickered from Charlotte to Strike.

Charlotte’s hand on his arm felt suddenly like an unbearably burdensome weight; he dropped it to fish out a cigarette from his pocket.

“You’re planning on a smoke break already?” Charlotte asked wryly as she surveyed the room. “That must be a new record.”

He didn’t answer. Robin and Tom were weaving their way through the crowd as though on a mission. His eyes hurriedly followed their path, searching for whatever they must see, until he watched them maneuver their way through the line to the front of the bar.

Tom passed Robin a flute of champagne before taking one himself, leaning in to whisper something in her ear. She laughed, her head falling back just slightly before she nodded, taking what he thought was a rather liberal sip of champagne.

Strike placed his hand on the small of Charlotte’s back, leading her forward into the room as he tore his eyes away from the bar. The cigarette he’d taken from his pocket was now behind his ear; she flashed him a look but said nothing.

Their unspoken but ongoing scorekeeping dictated that Charlotte had spent some valuable currency in inviting herself here tonight, and the balance was thus now in Strike’s favour. For a little while, at least.

***

An hour in and he hadn’t a message in his phone from Tom nor Robin yet, which meant no one had spotted Decaire or anyone else of any significance. The crowd was thick, and arrivals were ongoing. They were better stationed apart, in different corners of the party… although Strike could see with increasing annoyance that Robin and Tom seemed to find their way together too often.

And they were… tactile. He knew they were pretending to be a couple, but was it necessary to hold hands— actually hold hands— as they walked around the room, looking at the art, Robin making what Strike knew instinctively to be mockingly serious observations on the meaning of each abstract piece?

But it wasn’t even Tom and Robin’s physicality between them that stung. It was… their obvious camaraderie that made something twist unpleasantly inside of him. That ease, those knowing looks, the way she genuinely laughed… it was something he had stupidly thought reserved for only the two of them in their small universe.

He was grateful for the open bar, patronizing it far too frequently as the time slipped away.

“You look very handsome tonight”. Her breath warmed his neck; he turned to find Charlotte there, her eyes glittering. Even now her beauty could still manage to surprise him. They kissed, briefly, and for just a moment he felt restored again. It was almost like old times, that familiar magnetism that drew and held them together in any and every room they were in.

“That’d be the 500£ champagne talking, I expect” he said absently, scanning the group of men that had just entered.

“And, darling,” she leaned in and whispered in his ear, “I’ve asked after John for you.”

“What do you mean?” he asked sharply.

“I’ve asked after John Decaire.” Charlotte placed her empty glass on the tray of a passing server, barely turning her head to do so. Every movement she made seemed impossibly effortless. “He’s due to arrive in about half an hour.”

Strike rubbed his temple, trying to keep his expression neutral as people pressed around him. “Look— this is a sensitive—”

“I know what it is,” she snapped, her voice low. “I’m not stepping on any toes. I was just making conversation. Completely normal.” There was a pause, and she said, half playfully, half sarcastically, “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

He very much wanted to say “no”, even though that wasn’t entirely truthful. It helped a bit, to know that their waiting was not in vain, to have someone who could talk to the hosts without raising any questions, a passport of sorts… although the three of them would’ve waited another hour for the auction to start regardless. She seemed to be suggesting that they would’ve given up without her efforts. But what was more, Charlotte was clearly here with him, and thus her movements and questions became his own. She aroused more suspicion than she assumed.

Strike placed a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder in what he intended to be an affectionate gesture as he stepped past her. “Going for a smoke.” and then, in what he hoped was a compromise, “I’ll be back in 20 minutes for Decaire”.

***

The air was pleasantly cool and the balcony was wide and long. There was only one other couple outside, much to Strike’s surprise, loitering at the far end. He strolled to the other side and lit a cigarette. The walk across the main hall and down the stairs had made him realize just how drunk he was. It was the gin’s fault, really. With beer, he could pace himself. Cocktails were harder to judge.

He gazed out at the dark ravine that edged the estate. This was stupid. He couldn’t afford any sloppiness tonight. And the liquor blurred the edges of his judgement, which was what made him indulge in thoughts of Robin in that dress, with her hair pulled up.

It was jarring, for the person about whom you were just thinking rather inappropriate things, to suddenly appear in the flesh in beside you. So jarring that he almost stumbled backwards against the brick railing. Robin reached out a hand as though to steady him.

“ ‘m fine, thanks,” his words sounded more slurred than he expected. He looked at her standing there in front of him; her dress was a dark emerald, hugging her curves, with a modest neckline but a high slit on the skirt that showed her leg when she walked or stood at certain angles.

Taking pains to enunciate, he gestured at her, from head to toe. “You look very nice tonight.”

She blushed a bit, and he realized suddenly how very much he liked that he could make her do that. But her face was tight and strangely free of any usual friendliness or warmth. Different, he noticed, to how she’d been with Tom all night.

“Thank you.”

“The colour suits you,” he said into the silence, looking out at the trees, then back at her. This was the way they had talked in those few weeks before Charlotte re-entered the scene— delicately testing the waters, the slightest hint of flirting around the edges of words… looking back now, almost embarrassingly tentative. Of course, that had all stopped rather abruptly, just when they might’ve been about to turn a corner. In the very back of his mind, he wondered sometimes if that was one of the reasons he was suddenly receptive to a retreat into his old life. But that almost seemed too simple.

“Although,” he added, because he was feeling suddenly reckless, “I’m partial to the other one.”

Perhaps she owned more than one dress in green, yet she seemed to know that he was referencing the Cavalli.

“Ah,” she nodded, leaning her back against a high pillar so that she faced the opposite direction as he, towards the house. Strike tried very hard not to look at the flash of leg that slipped out as she did so. “Yes that— that one’s been retired for a while.”

He looked over at her. “Why’s that?”

“I still need to get it mended.” Her eyes were very deliberately not looking at his. “It ripped— just a bit, in the back, the last time I wore it.”

Strike took a slow drag of his cigarette, considering this. “Oh.”

There was a brief silence, and then she turned her body to look at him. She was maybe a bit drunk too, he realized. That was great… two of them in the bag with all their hopes on just Tom being halfway sober tonight.

“It was Matthew,” she said, and her lips half quirked up as though passing on a bit of tiresome gossip to a friend, some trivial ex-husband anecdote. “Accidentally. He might not have liked the dress but he knew it was expensive so I don’t think— anyway, he ripped it that, er— that night. He said later he’d take it in, to Vashti actually, but you know… never got around to it.” She hummed thoughtfully. “I should get that done, though”.

He nodded wordlessly, letting what she said wash over him, trying to keep old feelings at bay in the way you might manage the sudden rise of vomit. There were implications there, in what she said. There were only so many ways a man could rip a dress, and he imagined them all in the flash of about two seconds.

He laughed suddenly, humourlessly, and she looked at him, startled at the sound of it. “Right,” Strike chuckled, taking another drag. “God, he really was a stupid fucker.” He ground his cigarette into one of the granite ashtrays that had been built into the wide brick railings. “That was torture, watching you two.”

Robin crossed her arms in front of her chest, saying nothing. A feeling of hot rage uncurled inside of him and he knew it was for himself; it spread through him so quickly he had to redirect it quickly to the memory of Matthew again, simply as a mode of self-preservation.

“Yes, it was so hard for _you_ , wasn’t it”, she murmured coldly.

He was drunk and in the kind of mood where he was desperate to be unreasonable. _Yes, it fucking was_ , he thought, but instead he just shrugged. “We should go back inside”.

Robin didn’t move to go with him. He started on without her, then stopped and circled back as though pulled by an invisible hand.

“I’m sorry.” he reached out and touched her elbow gently. Whether by drink or the barrier that still existed between them only to stop either one from saying all those unspoken truths that still simmered from their past, he was unable to conjure the words. But his voice was suddenly and unexpectedly full of meaning when he said her name. “Robin—”

“I’ll tell you what’s torture,” she said, finally meeting his gaze directly and whispering fiercely, “Watching you… give everything up— watching you walk in here tonight, to a job, with _her_.”

He raised his eyebrows, and she looked determinedly away again. “Charlotte knows the hosts,” he said, “It makes sense—“

“It’s because—” She blinked furiously, tears springing to her eyes, “I _know_ she forced you into it, and this just isn’t like you— these past few months, you’re different— you’ve been so—”

“Cormoran?”

It was Strike’s turn to reach out and steady Robin as she startled and tripped backwards towards the railing, just as Charlotte suddenly appeared from behind a well-manicured hedge. He felt the latter’s eyes on his hand, which was first holding Robin’s arm then moved to the bare skin of her back as he gently guided her forward.

“Oh, hello.” Charlotte smiled warmly, then her face fell as though horrified. “God— are you alright?”

Robin was undeniably flushed as she brushed the last stubborn tears from her cheeks, trying in vain to laugh as though only casually perturbed. “Oh, I’m fine, I— this is embarrassing. We were just, erm— I was talking about— my divorce.”

A strange silence hung in the air.

“Bad memories.” Robin swallowed. “Mixed with champagne…”

Charlotte frowned, looking so genuinely empathetic that Strike was reminded just how effortlessly she was able to win people over. “I’m so sorry.”

Apparently at a sudden and inconvenient loss for words, Robin could only laugh, then open her mouth as though to speak, only to close it again.

“Well,” Charlotte was naturally adept at smoothing awkward situations over, “I just came out to tell you,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “Decaire isn’t coming, apparently.”

Robin blinked. “You— oh. You know why we’re here.”

It was Charlotte’s turn to chuckle awkwardly. “Well… yes. I’m not that out of touch.” She smiled.

“Who told you he wasn’t—“ Strike began, then stopped, taking stock. The night was a wash. He’d let everything get ridiculously out of his control. He wanted, for a moment, to blame Charlotte… she was a natural poison that seeped slowly into everything before you’d realized it. After all, here was he and Robin, snapping at each other while on a job, when their working relationship was usually unimpeachable. But no. It would be too easy to shrug it off on Charlotte. The responsibility ultimately fell on his shoulders. “Nevermind. We should leave. Separately. Robin, you first with Tom… where is he?”

“Inside”, she said, straightening herself up as though trying to physically shake off the last 10 minutes. “I’ll see you tomorrow”.

He watched as she walked back inside through the French doors, her red-gold head disappearing into the crowd. He continued to stare for another few moments as though expecting her to somehow reappear again, but she was gone. Thankfully, Charlotte was facing away, looking out into the ravine when he turned back to her.

“I didn’t ask anyone,” she sighed. “Lily mentioned it as we were all talking, that John and some others had been held up at work and wouldn’t be able to make it.”

“’s for the best,” he said, fumbling for another cigarette. “We’ll give it 15 minutes, let Robin and Tom leave first.”

A brief silence and then, “Robin is very pretty.” Charlotte moved closer to him. “I was watching her and Tom together. They really seem to get on. Do you think anything’s happening there?”

He knew she was watching for a reaction and he refused to give her one. He lit his cigarette. “Don’t know. Not my business.”

“You’re friends.”

“Something like that.” He inhaled a merciful hit of nicotine.

Charlotte smiled. “I feel like you don’t want me here.”

It was utterly ridiculous, because they both knew that he did not, in fact, want her there. That he had expressly told her so just hours ago. But that balance had tipped again, the power now out of Strike’s grasp. Because they both knew how charged the air was when she came out and found him and Robin alone, because she had surely seen the way he’d watched her leave, because she undoubtedly suspected something else in Robin’s tears.

Surprising himself, he put an arm around Charlotte’s waist and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you so much for your comments and kudos!

He wasn’t sure what to expect as he trudged up the stairs on Monday morning. That in itself was unnerving, because if there was any constant he could rely upon these last few years, it was that he would almost always be pleased just to see Robin, regardless of the circumstance. And now twice in the last 24 hours he’d faced the prospect with something resembling foreboding.

“I’ll be here at 6pm,” the driver had said, glancing at him through the rearview mirror as Strike fumbled with the door.

“No,” he’d replied quickly. Only once before had he taken a drive to the office, and that was when he’d taken a nasty fall on his leg. This morning he’d been hungover, preoccupied, running late, and Charlotte had been so accommodating and affectionate that he’d felt obliged to accept. Letting her take care of him made her happy, and this, he reminded himself, was surely a good quality.

Still, he had already made up his mind on where he’d be spending the night.

“No need.” He had stumbled out, grabbing his bag, then leaned down to look back in. “I’ll be, er, staying here tonight.” He wasn’t sure if that was necessary information to pass on to the driver, and the man was still looking up at him blankly. Strike had waited a moment, then shut the door, tapping the roof awkwardly.

Now standing at the top of the stairs, he took a steadying breath before walking into the agency, keeping his face casual as he nodded to Robin, who was on the phone and barely looked up at him. His own office, though, was already open, and take-away cup of tea, steam still rising, from the new cafe downstairs sat at his desk. An odd peace offering, since she knew he preferred his own made from their kitchenette, but still.

Hearing the phone click, he walked to his office door, holding the cup in front of him. He noticed she had one on her desk, too. “Thanks.”

Robin raised her eyebrows. “Wasn’t from me. That was Tom.”

“Oh.” A beat. “Nice of him.”

“Yes, well,” She blew on the rim of her cup, her eyes flicking across her computer screen. “He didn’t have one for you at first, but when I told him that you were expected in, back down he ran.”

Strike lifted the lid and checked. Whoever had added the milk had made a massacre of it. When he looked back up he thought he caught the smallest quirk of her lips. “Where is he, anyway?”

“You just missed him. He’ll be back, he had to run out for something.”

“Has a hard time staying in one place for long, I’ve noticed.” Strike leaned against his doorframe, watching as Robin dipped her tea bag a few more times. “Earl Grey?”

She shot him a look. “Nice for a change.”

He suppressed a retort, but felt a perverse pleasure in knowing that Tom, at least, didn’t know her morning drink preference. “You get back alright last night?”

It was his first foray into mentioning the hours previous; it had to be done eventually and he preferred just ripping off the band-aid.

“Of course,” she said quietly, and he sensed something in her tone, a hint of vulnerability and reticence that made him soften even more towards her.

He walked over, pulling up a chair a few feet from her desk instead of sitting on the couch. “I know it sounds like I’m making excuses,” he mused, “But I doubt we all should’ve even gone in the first place. Even if he’d shown up, it still—”

“Odd to not make an appearance at your own party, isn’t it?”

“More common than you’d think with these people,” Strike smiled ruefully. “They offer up their homes more like venues, when needed. Not like your average get-together with friends. Which is why I’d prefer to find him in a more intimate setting than last night, anyway.” He waited, then figured while he was ripping band-aids… “Why don’t we get lunch today? Go over what you wanted to talk about yesterday.”

“Ah,” Robin looked almost panicked at the suggestion. “Well, I can’t today. Why don’t we just talk now?”

“I—”

Before he could say anything, she had already started fumbling through some folders on her desk. “I found this,” she said, pushing some papers towards him. Screen captures from what he recognized was some social media site. A girl’s hands circling around a cup of coffee.

“What am I looking at?”

“The floor tiling,” she said, her voice a bit lighter and more excited now. “This girl had left a comment on Lily Decaire’s page, so I followed it, found this picture, and noticed it was the same as the imported Danish tiles that Decaire’s brother had in his property, and then last night—”

Strike frowned. “How— would you have noticed—?”

“They’re very unique”, Robin said, “My roommate went to school for design actually, before switching to theatre, so I’ve heard a lot about Nordic interiors and how we’re missing out here in the U.K., what he’d put down if he could… Of course, he’s just frustrated that the landlord won’t even let him rip up the carpeting, even though the previous tenant had kept feral cats— but anyway,” she continued, clocking the expression on Strike’s face, “It could’ve been nothing, but it stood out to me. So one thing led to another, and…”

She passed him another picture. A couple sat together, curled up under a blanket, gazing lovingly into the distance, apparently oblivious to whoever had taken the photograph. “Sundays <3” read the caption.

“Very natural,” Strike mumbled. “Who’s the boyfriend?”

“She hadn’t tagged him,” Robin said, “And they definitely don’t live together, either. This is her own place. But I checked the comments, and… well, the man in the picture is Liam Grisholm, who is—”

“John Decaire’s nephew.” Strike looked again at the first picture. “This could be another property.”

“Yes. In fact, I think it is. And judging by her other posts… it’s not too far from here.” She pulled out some more papers with screen captures to show him. It still amazed him how much people were willing to put online, leaving breadcrumbs where they shouldn’t. Strike frowned, holding the paper up in front of him as though it was a vision test.

“These aren’t Facebook.”

She chuckled, and Strike looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

“No, it’s Instagram.”

“What’s that?” he asked, setting the papers back down on the desk and taking out his notebook.

Robin stared. “It’s an app— well, it’s like Facebook, but it’s a photo-sharing… are you serious?”

“I would never joke about Instantgram, Robin.”

“ _Insta_ gram.”

“Exactly.” He watched as she typed quickly on her desktop and brought up search-engine images of the app, listening as she quickly explained typical content, how users could link together, how you could track connections through tags and likes. Basically, how an investigator could use it for their own purposes.

He glanced at the phone on her desk. “Have you got an account?”

“Er— yes.” She made a small movement as though she wanted to put her phone back in her bag but thought better of it.

“Go on, then.” He grinned at the look on her face. “I’m learning on the job, Ellacott, show me how you do it.”

“Absolutely not.” She turned back to her computer, biting back her smile.

Strike leaned back in his chair, watching the slightest blush creep up on her neck and rather enjoying herself. “Hiding something? Been passing off my lunch plates as your own for your followers?”

“Oh, shutup. I rarely post, haven’t in ages, I just—”

The door swung open with a rattle and Tom barged through, shaking the rain off his hood and throwing his bag on the couch. He looked over at the two of them sitting behind Robin’s computer. “Oh, great! We all made it. You get your drink?” He nodded toward Strike.

“Yeah, cheers,” Strike said, trying and failing to meet a fraction of his enthusiasm. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Robin surreptitiously place the plastic lid back up her cup, hiding how little she had drank.

Tom brushed some raindrops out of his hair and dropped on the couch. “What are we talking about?”

“Instagram,” he replied, running a hand over his eyes as he suppressed a yawn. He hadn’t had much sleep, if any. Maybe he would have a chance for 30 minutes in his office.

“Oh, you filled him in?” Tom was taking out his iPad and flipping off the protective cover. “I’ve found property listings that support your theory, Robin. Thought we could go for a stroll today, actually.”

An icy feeling flooded Strike’s stomach, one that he recognized was perhaps a bit more intense than the situation warranted. He looked back at Robin, who was definitely flushing now as she kept her eyes glued on her desktop monitor.

“He knows already?” Strike frowned, not caring that the man in question was sitting directly in front of them, smiling politely but inquisitively. A snippet of their conversation from last week played in Strike’s head like a film… _We could meet up… I don’t want to loop Tom in just yet_ … “Thought you said that if we met Sunday—”

“Yes, well,” Robin turned to face him, tossing her head in defiance, “That didn’t happen, and I had no idea when I’d next get the chance. So Tom and I went over everything after we left the party last night, I wanted an opinion—”

He stood up abruptly, nodding his head. “Right. Doesn’t matter. Tom, send me those property listings when you can. I’ve got another meeting this afternoon, so I’ll be leaving soon enough.”

“Good,” she said sharply, and even Tom looked quelled by her tone.

Strike walked into his office without another word, shutting the door behind him.

***

He woke, disoriented, hearing the sounds of Denmark Street through his window and thinking for a moment he was in his own flat before first realizing he was, in fact, sitting upright and therefore must still be… he opened his eyes… in his office.

Grabbing at the small clock on his desk, he saw that he had slept for only three quarters of an hour and exhaled a short breath of relief. He could still make it, if he left right now.

There was quiet in the exterior offices as he gathered his things and shrugged on his jacket. He was just about to leave when he saw it: sitting on the edge of his desk, a mug filled with tea in a shade so appealing he knew only Robin could have prepared it. Feeling that it was still quite warm, he moved quickly to open his door but as suspected, the room was vacant. A screensaver bounced across Robin’s desktop monitor, her own jacket gone from her chair.

With a sharp jab that felt something like the bitter edge of nostalgia, he suddenly was struck by a memory of the early days, those long hours spent with just the two of them, both pulling the other forward when necessary to keep the agency going, cushioned by an unforeseen and unplanned friendship that, before he knew it, ran so deep it felt like a phantom part of his own self.

His office door, he realized, had been kept closed with increasing frequency over the last few months. Yes, they were busier than ever, and yes, it was more crowded than usual with contracted workers and the occasional temporary secretary, and yes, Robin herself was out on the street nearly half the time anyway. And yet…

He could acknowledge the fact of his own self-imposed distance, although _why_ was a more complicated question that he couldn’t bring himself to analyze. He also knew, deep down, that his bitterness at Robin and Tom’s closeness had more to do with his own regret over something he’d sensed was slipping away…

Strike crossed the office quickly and grabbed a post-it and sharpie off her desk, scrolling a quick note that he stuck on her keyboard.

 _I owe you a meal. Lunch— dinner— pints? You choose._  
_C._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the love and comments!

Robin Ellacott was having a thoroughly miserable day, and it wasn’t yet 9am. She’d managed somehow to have a spat with her mother, who’d called her at an absurdly early hour to ask about Robin’s plans to drive to Masham in a few weeks to attend a family gathering, only to take offence at Robin’s suggestion that she might’ve sent an email instead. Maybe, if Robin could answer messages more promptly, then she’d be more willing to email!

Next it was a burn on her arm from her flat iron; then being forced to double back to her flat for her forgotten phone, which of coursed caused her to miss her bus; and finally discovering a sizeable rip in her stockings as she waited for the tube. There was, therefore, an unmistakably cloudy look on her face when she hurried into the small breakfast spot a block from the office.

“Sorry,” she murmured, shuffling into the booth at the back, forcing a smile for the man who had stood to kiss her quickly on the lips before they both sat. “We’ll have to be quick.”

She’d been seeing Alex for almost two months now, after a few fumbling attempts with others that went nowhere past a first date. Vanessa had set her up with a friend of a friend, prodding her gently until she finally agreed to a rainy-day meet up at a gallery, followed by coffee. The ease of conversation surprised her, as did her willingness to kiss him halfway through the second date.

He was actually interested in her work, not to mention very kind, polite, quick to tell a joke. And what’s more, he accommodated her schedule… which usually meant random hurried lunches, a few late night drinks, weekends where they could, and some pre-work breakfasts like this one. It was nice— having something to actually look forward to outside of the job.

(“I did good, didn’t I?” Vanessa beamed at her as a group of them, Alex deep in conversation with Vanessa’s partner, strolled through a food market one Sunday.

“Maybe,” she smiled coyly, although she noticed she didn’t blush at all at Vanessa’s suggestive eyebrow raise.  _This is how you should be feeling, at this point. Happy enough. The rest will come later_.)

Some nights, he’d pull her close in bed while she took a few moments to fumble for her things in the dark, urging her to just stay over (“I’ll pay for your cab in the morning”) but she felt as much pride in her guilt-free deflections as she did in her ability to nurture her initial flicker of attraction to him into a convenient desire. She never mentioned him to Strike… or anyone at work, of course. Boundaries should exist.

Now, here at the restaurant, he was setting down the menu he’d held up to offer her. “How quick are you thinking?” Alex gestured toward a server at the front of the restaurant. At the table next to them, someone set down a two plates of eggs and toast.

“Er… 10 minutes? I’m sorry.” She pressed her leg to his under the table. “Just coffee, thanks,” she said to the server, handing him her menu.

“Ah, me too, thank you.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t need to keep saying that,” he smiled, but for the first time she sensed some tension under his words.

“Right.” Robin resisted the urge to check her watch. “So. How was your sister’s birthday?”

They made unusually stilted conversation for what felt to Robin like far longer than 10 minutes, until finally she kissed him goodbye and they parted ways, with cursory promises to meet that weekend. She walked the block over to work, feeling suddenly drained noting she still, of course, had a full day ahead.

Her days-long absence from the office (cases had taken her off-site since Monday) showed, the mail lying unopened on a side table. She brought it to her desk, kicking off her boots and switching to heels, still feeling an inexplicable melancholy, when she saw the post-it on her keyboard.

It felt something like colour being poured into a black and white landscape. Robin bit her lip, smiling, indulging in the glow of it before she realized and caught herself.

_Stop it._

She scrunched the note and tossed it in the bin.

***

It all seemed so long ago now. Shortly after leaving Matthew and moving into her new flat, in a rather embarrassing attempt to expand her social circle at the urging of her new therapist, she had practically invited herself to drinks with Vanessa and her friends.

A few glasses of wine in, and her nerves had faded into a happy, slightly lightheaded feeling of freedom as she sat in the back of a dark, hip restaurant with a group of girls her age. She wasn’t the awkward outlier with nothing to contribute as she’d imagined, because Vanessa’s friends took great interest in Robin’s divorce and recent single status. They wanted set her up a Tinder account, offered the names of friends who she might be interested in. Just something casual, nothing serious.

“No, thanks, really,” Robin smiled into her glass. “I’m fine for now.”

“Hang on… Are you seeing someone— already?”

“No!” It was the truth of course, but her heart gave a strange, quick beat all the same, and she felt it again— that delicate, giddy, growing warmth she’d been carrying around with her the last few weeks like a secret. She kept her face blank, impassive. “Really. I’m just enjoying being… by myself for a while.”

Her thoughts turned to the coming weekend— she’d be seeing Strike the next day, at Ilsa’s surprise birthday, and suddenly that seemed years away, even though she’d just waved goodbye to him at a tube station hours ago. Scanning the crowded restaurant as though somehow expecting to see him among the throngs of groups and couples seated at tables and crowded around the bar, she finished the last of her wine, hit with a sudden craving for something she could not place, as though some other part of her was missing.

***

Robin could never, she promised herself, admit to anyone how pathetically she’d sobbed into her pillow the night she’d learned about Strike and Charlotte. Having felt only icy detachment and calm the whole way home, she had quietly climbed the stairs to her bedroom, removed her minimal makeup slowly and methodically, shed her clothes and changed into an old t-shirt before crawling into bed, only to crumble in upon herself.

In a flash she could see his life as it was obviously meant to be… all the passion and glamour of someone like Charlotte Campbell, someone exciting and enigmatic enough to keep him endlessly interested… he would accompany her to all her upper echelon events and parties, Charlotte revelling in all the curious looks thrown his way, this man who reluctantly straddled both worlds but did it lovingly for her. Of course. How didn’t she see it before? It was everything he was always supposed to have, everything he’d so clearly been waiting for. Not… what? Weekend visits to Masham, sharing her old twin bed and having her father proudly show him the shed she’d helped build as a teenager? Date nights where she cooked in her small kitchen with a fire alarm that went off when they used so much as a toaster?

It was only then, seeing the path he was meant to walk down, that she allowed herself to truly realize the depth of her feelings for him. Only then that she felt the full impact of how much she… wanted him. That she’d thought their connection was all just a deep and profound friendship seemed almost funny to her now. In the small hours of that awful night she’d imagined this was her punishment, for all the wrong choices she’d made, the time wasted.

Maybe, she thought with a sudden flash of anger, maybe _she_ should’ve aimed higher. Wanted more for herself than someone 12 years her senior, with debts still to pay off, living in a dingy flat above their office and who had once ordered a full steak and chips as a starter. But deep down, she knew it was a cruel and unavoidable fact that she could… _they_ could… be as stupidly happy sharing stale biscuits on a long stretch of boring road in an old Land Rover than she would… she swallowed… than she would be doing virtually anything else, with anyone else. _How could I be so stupid?_

Yet when she awoke the next morning, sunlight streaming in through the windows, it was with a slightly abashed feeling at her 3am melodrama. Splashing water on her face, she stared at her reflection in the mirror, taking a deep breath. She felt suddenly renewed, everything now laid out in front of her. So she’d been led on by men, all pretending to offer her things they couldn’t. She was tired of waiting around for people to tell her what to do.

That afternoon, she perused airplane tickets online, thinking vaguely of a holiday somewhere alone, but then after seeing the fees and checking her bank account again, closed the tab decidedly. She ended up registering for a pottery course that she attended only once. And she also texted Vanessa, asking for the number she’d offered her last weekend.

***

It was Strike who pulled back, not her. He who was, apparently, caught up in daily dramas that were so much more appealing than the work they were doing… that was what frustrated her. She considered that maybe he wasn’t the person she’d imagined, but found herself defending him valiantly in her own mind; loyalty, she supposed, was hard to shake off.

And yet, when she saw that note on her keyboard, she was hit with a sudden sense of intense longing that she immediately suppressed.

He strolled in later that morning, holding several breakfast sandwiches and offered her one, nodding towards his office. Stomach growling, she gratefully accepted.

“Only had time for coffee this morning,” she said, holding her hand in front of her mouth as she chewed and looked over the binder of court documents he’d managed to get a hold of. “Could’ve gone for one of their omelettes, though”.

He frowned. “Whose?”

“Oh, em…” She flushed, not usually that careless. “I was at Poached this morning.”

“You had a meeting?”

“… No. Just… a social thing.” She took another bite.

He didn’t press it, didn’t seem surprised or curious at all actually. They ate in silence for a while longer, Strike passing her marked-up papers as he read them. Robin reached across at one point to place a label on one stack.

“What’s that?”

He’d reached out before either of them realized it, his large hand closing lightly, delicately, around her forearm, calloused thumb just grazing the edge of where she’d scalded her skin that morning.

She sucked in a breath but didn’t move. “A burn.”

It wasn’t like them, to touch so carelessly, but his thumb was still tracing the outline of the red patch on her arm. Robin felt her heart in her throat, her mouth suddenly, perilously, dry. She felt a million things at once.

He pulled his hand back. “How’d that happen?”

“Flat iron.” She swallowed, dropping her arm down to her lap. “For my hair.”

Strike nodded, considering her, then turned back to his notes. “Dangerous weapons,” he quipped absently, too absently. She stared at the page in front of her, not reading a word.

***

Perhaps she needed a distraction, to have fun, to get her mind off work. But she wouldn’t lead someone on. It wasn’t fair. For so many years, she’d lived her own life in denial and it wasn’t something she fancied doing anymore. She’d surely faced worse than this, the slow burn of unrequited… feelings. Hadn’t she? What was it Vanessa’s friend had said… halve the time you were with someone, that’s how long it’ll take to get over them. Of course, they were never together, but she thought back to the first day they met and counted forward. So maybe it would only take another… well, another year or so.

It took her a full hour to compose the email to Alex that night. After reading it over for the 10th time, making sure the apology was as genuine as she felt it, she pressed send and then shut her laptop immediately, jumping up and pacing her kitchen.

She expected to feel worse, but she didn’t. She felt an increasingly familiar, enticingly addictive feeling in her chest: freedom.


	5. Chapter 5

He knew from the start, years ago, that his withdrawal from the toxic addictiveness of Charlotte had to be a deliberate process— disciplined, careful.

But he also knew that, quite simply, you were clean until one day you weren’t. All it took was one time, just one real slip-up. He knew that one day, unexpectedly, the progress you’d made in distancing yourself and moving forward, became nothing more than a memory.

They spoke one day, during the Chiswell trial; she’d been attending occasionally as a guest of the family. Near the end, as the jury entered their long deliberations, she found him smoking alone in the back lot and asked him for help. She wanted someone to track Jago, to give her leverage in the divorce. He’d declined the request swiftly and easily, but still leaned over to light her cigarette, against his better judgement.

“Robin did so well,” Charlotte had remarked, commenting lightly on the trial and his involvement as though it were a rather entertaining new series that he happened to guest star in. “I’m glad you were able to bring an assistant on—”

“Partner,” he’d corrected automatically, vaguely wishing they wouldn’t discuss Robin.

“Oh. Yes. She’s… god, just watching her, she’s _so, so_ young.”

Strike had wanted, for some reason, to contest this, as though defending her against some slight, but found he couldn’t conjure an argument. Robin was, after all, not even yet thirty. He’d be lying if he said he had never thought of it.

“And been through so much already.” She’d let out a long exhale of smoke. “I hope she gets some time to just be _young_ … When I think of everything I went through in my 20s… You have no idea what you’re doing at that age, no idea what you want. So you screw everything up, of course. But you were always there to help me through it.” Her hand had found his way to his somehow, and squeezed briefly, before releasing. They were standing closer than he’d expected.

He’d noticed, suddenly, that the glimmering pendant that hung from the low chain on her neck was familiar— very familiar in fact. It was his mother’s, and he’d given it to Charlotte when she’d turned 25. He didn’t mind she still had it— there was plenty where that came from, stowed away in a box in his flat, untouched. But he also didn’t bother to tear his eyes away from it, his gaze had lingered. Remembering the intensity of the high of their reconciliation just around her birthday that year. Evidently she’d seen what he was looking at; her well-manicured fingers had touched it delicately.

“Whenever I wear this, I feel safe,” she’d murmured. “That’s what you told me, remember?”

“Speaking of stupid things from our youth,” he’d replied wryly, finishing the last of his cigarette. He hadn’t remembered saying that, but knowing he’d surely said worse at that age, he wouldn’t have put money on it.

“You can have it back, of course. I know it was your—”

“It was a gift, it’s yours,” he’d shrugged, tossing the cigarette. But still he’d stood in place, sensing she had more to say and inexplicably feeling that he ought to hear it.

“Do you remember that weekend we spent in Copenhagen… when I was trying to avoid another stint in rehab and you rescued me? Our tiny hotel room that overlooked that weird sex shop?”

He did.

***

It was a simple invitation that she’d managed to get through to him, one that he didn’t need to accept. A hotel room, paid for, under her name, key at the front desk and waiting, in case he needed a respite from the cameras that were crowding their offices after the Chiswell verdict. It would’ve been so simple to decline.

***  
  
He thought of a sign that hung in the physiotherapy room in the hospital where he worked on his recovery. It was one word, in bold typeface, simply reading: ENDURANCE.

Pushing forward, despite all the warning signals in your brain telling you that you’re in pain. The acceptance of struggle as a show of fortitude. Knowing that nothing could possibly grow and bloom without first inflicting some sort of damage to prove its worth. Nearly two decades of exhaustive endurance with Charlotte, surely that proved something. Why should he think it could be easier?

That, he thought, had to be what love was. To _endure_.  
  
*****************  
  
Ilsa was pouring homemade dressing over a very leafy salad at her desk as Strike watched, himself wishing he had grabbed lunch on the way over but hoping very much that she wouldn’t offer him anything.

“Yes,” she answered finally. “It’s a common practice. Few clients here, actually, got themselves in a bit of trouble… trying to get rid of all that money by spending it on quick trips overseas, holding offshore accounts, the usual. But that’s all basic stuff.”

“So if I—”

“Yeah, yeah, give it here.” She made a motion with her hands and Strike slid the binder of court documents across the desk. “I’ll look it over.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

She chewed a forkful of kale thoughtfully. “Could I bribe you with dinner then, tomorrow night? Swing by and pick this up, along with my expert commentary?”

He rubbed his forehead. “Er… can’t, actually. Charlotte—”

“No problem.” Ilsa cut him off with a tight smile, jabbing at a pepper rather forcefully. They sat in silence for a few moments as Ilsa ate, and then, apparently having mentally talked herself into it, spoke again. “Sorry. How’s that going?”

Strike raised his eyebrows. “It’s fine. Thanks for asking.”

“You know I don’t want to… to make you feel you can’t talk to me about Charlotte, or anything in your life really.”

“I seem to remember the exact words being, ‘I don’t want to hear her name ever ag—‘“

“Well, since when do you listen to me, anyway?” Her face softened as she looked him over. “You seem tired. I would’ve thought you’d be sleeping better at her place, high thread counts and all that.”

He smirked. “Things are busy, as usual.”

“So Robin says.” She glanced at him over her glasses. “You’re working her non-stop.”

“Robin works herself non-stop.” He wondered exactly how often Robin was still visiting Nick and Ilsa’s, alone now, no doubt filling them in on his erratic schedule and moods. There was a time, of course, many months ago now, that they had been something of a four-some, enjoying takeaways together at Nick and Ilsa’s on Friday nights after a long work week. A memory came to him unbidden— Robin, nearly doubled over with laughter in Nick and Ilsa’s kitchen as one of their cats, who had a strange fascination with Strike, climbed his trouser leg and Strike had unsuccessfully tried to shake her off. _Don’t move!_ She’d yelled, grabbing her phone, and he’d obediently frozen as she’d taken what seemed to be an inordinate amount of photos as it climbed higher. _Oh, just for my personal collection,_ she’d teased.

“Thought you had more help now,” Ilsa was saying. “How’s the newest guy, the one I met last time I was over there?”

Strike grunted. “Yeah, fine. Tom. Has a lot of contacts. Works quickly.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, the unexpected memories mixing unpleasantly in his mind with the reality of the last few weeks. “He and Robin get on. He really likes Robin, that’s obvious.” He blamed Ilsa’s office itself for loosening his tongue; something about the pristine mahogany surfaces, the faint aroma of essential oils, the dehumidifier humming in the background, reminded him strongly of being at a shrink’s. “Don’t think he’s her type, but then again I couldn’t explain her ex-husband—”

“I don’t think there’s anything between them,” Ilsa interrupted. Her face was suddenly distant and unreadable. She set down her fork, then picked it up again, avoiding his eyes.

Sensing an abrupt shift in the atmosphere, Strike suddenly felt an inexplicable urge to leave the room before she could say another word.

“You didn’t hear it from me,” she muttered, toying with her snowpeas, as though he’d pressed her for details. “But Robin is dating. Not anyone you know, but she’s… having fun.”

“Good,” he said quickly, nodding a few too many times. “Yeah, good. Well. Anyway, Tom will be tied up elsewhere in a month, but Wardle knows an ex-cop who happens to be looking—”

“Corm—”

“I should get going.”

“Just, come for dinner sometime. Bring Charlotte.”

“Say hi to Nick.” He grabbed a mint from the bowl on her desk as he stood. “And thanks again.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your love and comments! <3  
> (Just a note, I had a question from someone about Charlotte's babies. Yes, in this universe those bbs are living their best lives with the Rosses, with an occasional visit from Charlotte. They were discussed in an earlier draft but that was cut out in an edit. There might be a mention in the future but for the purposes of this story, yeah they're chilling in a designer crib somewhere and just focused on applesauce and applying early for Montessori).

It was common, he found, when he answered others’ polite inquiries as to the nature of his work, that they would often respond by bemoaning their own office routine— as though he’d just confessed to leisurely afternoon picnics in Hyde Park.

_“So nice, to be able to be out and about during the day.”_

_“I’m glued to my desk, 9 to 5, staring at a screen.”_

So how was it, he wondered, his mood dark as he left Ilsa’s, that the pubs nevertheless seemed constantly packed full with these same suited-up office workers at all hours of the work day? Shouldn’t there be some respite, even now in mid afternoon, well past lunch hour?

He managed to find a private enough table near the back where he could pull out his notebook.

 _Having fun._ Well, good for her. It’s not like he hadn’t anticipated it.

Strike drew a map of the neighbourhood he’d been in the day before, starring the two houses he’d surveyed.

_“She’s so, so young.”_

Charlotte had found other ways to subtly remind him of that, those first few weeks they were together. _“Do you let that poor girl have any time off? She’s always calling. A Saturday night in London, at her age? Let her go, Corm!”_

He added notes to the map— timings, estimated movements, a legend in the bottom right, dictating who had bought and sold.

He could imagine the type. Clean-cut, good job, but she would correct as necessary from Matthew. He’d be concerned about her safety, but without being possessive, admiring the skills she exhibited as an investigator, beguiled by the layers to be discovered in her. Of course… that’s what she was always meant to have, wasn’t it? A real life. A steadying force. Someone to expertly drive the Land Rover home to Masham for Christmas while she caught up on much-needed sleep on the passenger side. He, Strike, a rather funny anecdote, a strange turn from her youth that she might’ve once wildly considered had fate not fortunately intervened.

That’s what people do— move on, live their lives. It was only he who seemed suspended in the past, caught by inertia.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed. Surprised that he’d not thought to check it since leaving Ilsa’s, he took it out, noting immediately a list of missed calls, all from Charlotte, and a more recent flurry of text messages. He skimmed the words quickly— _hospital… doctor… tests…_ and of course, a picture of a hospital ID bracelet on her wrist. He hesitated for a moment, then drained the rest of his pint, flicking through his phone to look more closely at the texts.

It rang again—the timing was almost comical. Robin.

“Yeah.”

“I got it. A private viewing… We can go on Saturday,” Robin said without preamble. Judging by the sounds of typing coming through the phone, she was at her desk in the office. “When you get back—”

“Actually,” he cut her off, running a hand over his face. “I won’t be back in today. We’ll have to talk later.”

It was obvious she wasn’t surprised. “Okay.”

“Charlotte’s had some sort of…” He trailed off, suddenly finding himself ridiculous. There was a pronounced silence from the other end. “… emergency,” he managed.

“Oh.” Robin sounded reasonably, adequately concerned. “Is she alright?”

“Yes.” The answer came quickly, resolutely, before he’d even had time to consider it. “I just… have to go.” He looked out the window of the pub, in the general direction of their offices, even though they were separate by half a city. “Look, Robin…”

She didn’t respond, likely waiting for him to finish whatever instruction he was about to give. The silence crackled, and then, without warning, the moment passed.

“Cormoran?” There was a hint of impatience in her voice, as though she, of course, had a long list of things to get back to.

“Yeah. Was just gonna say, I’ve come from Ilsa’s. She’s going to annotate everything.”

“Great.” He heard the distant clack of her keyboard again. “How is she?”  
  
“Good. Still on that health kick… you probably know that, though. Er— I saw some pictures of the cats. On her desk.” He paused, sure he could sense her smile. She had stopped typing again. “They’ve grown.”

“Does that scare you?” She chuckled, that teasing lilt back in her voice. “Well… They miss you, I’m sure.”

Another pause, and he realized suddenly what he was doing— he just wanted to keep her on the line, even if it was another minute of just silence, that would be enough for him. _“Let her go, Corm”._ “Right. Anyway—”

“You should get to Charlotte,” she interrupted swiftly. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

***

The door was unlocked when he arrived. He hadn’t yet accepted offer of a key, although he could admit he had felt a bit strange, still knocking on the door of a place he’d once, albeit reluctantly, called home for a short time.

She was curled up in an armchair, wrapped in soft grey cashmere and reading a book. Instinctively, he understood the dictates of their usual scorecard. She was still angry, but he had actually given in and come to her, left work— and so she had to be gracious for a while. At one point he would’ve welcomed that, relaxed into the dynamic that gave him an edge, but now he found himself irritated.

Without any sort of greeting, he took a seat across the room from her.

She looked back at him, anger flickering across her features despite herself. “You’re not even going to ask what’s happened?”

“What happened?” It was too mechanical. He could feel himself tense up in that familiar way. Readying himself to convince her, so that she might open up and let him in. But, as though it was all a song he’d suddenly forgot the notes to, he found himself sitting blankly, with nothing to draw upon. “Are you alright?” he tried again.

She raised her eyebrows. “Hm. Very brisk. Is this you, investigating me?”

He waited.

“If you’re so unconcerned,” she said finally, her eyes narrowed, “then why bother coming by at all? I haven’t seen you in days.”

“I know you’re not pregnant,” he said curtly, preferring to put it all out there.

She laughed now, getting up and heading to the kitchen where she put on the kettle. “Solved that one, did you? I never wanted you to think— I never _said_ I was. If you’d picked up the phone, you would’ve known.” Evidently already forgetting about the slowly boiling water, she moved to pour herself a glass of wine instead. “It was low iron, since you care so much. Very low, actually. I had a bad spell. And I wanted my boyfriend there with me, how horrible.” She took a sip of her chardonnay, watching him closely. “Do you want to see the blood test results?”

“No.” The answer echoed in the space between them, it seemed to render her question absurd. “Did you think I would?”  
  
“You always seem to want proof,” she hissed. “Interrogating me, asking a million questions, inspecting pictures, trying to poke holes in everything. I’m sure you checked the picture of the hospital bracelet, to see if I was even there—”

“I didn’t,” he cut her off. “Because I didn’t want to know if you were lying.”

There was a flash of something like panic in her eyes that made him feel a jolt of pity towards her. She both hated and feared being called a liar, an unfortunate thing for someone so addicted to deception. It was an accusation he had avoided as of late, even if he had proof of it… so as not to disturb her deeper waters, so that they could go back to enjoying each other, trying to find their old footing without stepping on any fault-lines.

It hadn’t occurred to him, he thought suddenly, that he might expect to feel safe with a person’s whole self.

“Fuck you,” she whispered. “I’ve never lied to you.”

“Charlotte.”

“Not about real things like this, and…” She blinked back tears now, genuine tears of suppressed frustration, “Do you know how _hard_ you make this for me? These last few months, it’s like I’m always trying to measure up, you won’t let things go back—”

“Things feel… different this time,” he admitted, surprising himself at his own honesty. Of course it was different, he’d always expected it would be, always attributed it to the hurt and pain caused by their last breakup, assumed the rift would mend eventually, and that things had to be sacrificed, but…

“And don’t think I don’t know who you’re measuring me against, either,” she said, as though he hadn’t just spoken. “It’s so predictable. What a cliché. The _secretary_ , really?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said harshly, his demeanour shifting unexpectedly from the calm and detached tone he’d been taking.

“Don’t I?” She set down her glass, a strange smile playing across her face suddenly as she walked back into the sitting area again. “You needing, wanting someone to feed your own ego instead of a real—”

“No, you don’t, because if you think—”

“Oh, I know nothing’s happened, because for some reason you _love_ that it’s all so _innocent_. That _she’s_ so innocent. So you can hold it over me.” Charlotte sat back in her chair, tucking her legs under her as though getting comfortable, in her element. “The way she just stares at you with that look in her eyes, thinking you can do no wrong. Wanting you, but not allowed to touch. You like that don’t you?” She tilted her head to the side, as though considering the point, finding it interesting.

Strike stood abruptly, hoping his face was still passive, blank. “I’m leaving. We’ll talk later.”

Again she continued like she was never interrupted, as if she knew he’d still stand there and listen. “Because this way you haven’t disappointed her yet. Not used to that, are you? And unlike me of course, she hasn’t betrayed _you_ either… or has she?” Still she looked at him with vague excitement, evidently waiting to reveal some ace up her sleeve. “I can talk to people too, you know. Ask around, like you do.”

“We’re not going to talk about my job.” He wanted to jump in and challenge her, to point out all the ways she couldn’t know anything, to interrogate until he found the weak spot, but resisted, knowing he couldn’t let himself-- let anyone-- be drawn in to this game she was bluffing at—

“She’s leaving,” she said quietly, eyes moving over his face. “Leaving you, I mean. She’s been trying to get out, asking around with the police, looking at job openings.”

“Alright.” He moved, finally, towards the door, opened it, then paused. “Forgot to say, I’ll be out of town Saturday. Goodbye, Charlotte.”

If she said anything in response, he didn’t hear it. Back on the cold street, he walked quickly, weaving through crowds, accepting the punishing pain in his leg as some sort of retribution.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! A longer wait for this chapter; I had a big work project that also involves writing, so had to force myself to stop writing this for a while. Anyway, back to it! Thanks for all your support!

He was well aware what people thought, even if no had had actually come out and said it. They assumed, of course, that Charlotte had finally managed a to spin a new web of manipulation so complex and enticing that she’d succeeded in catching him again; that he was ignorant to whatever new lie she’d concocted to fool him; that some powerful feminine siren call had pulled him unwillingly back to the rocky shore.

He figured it was the kind of assumption that might’ve aimed to absolve him.

But in his more honest moments, he knew that others’ opinions on his relationship didn’t matter to him. The exception to that, as it was with many rules in his life, was Robin. What would she think if she knew of the mundanity of his own self-sabotage? Of, all things considered, how little effort on Charlotte’s part it had taken to convince him? His own terrible mistakes, even more clear now, were that much more apparent as he saw them in Robin’s eyes. There would, of course, be no absolution there.

***

Strike pretended he hadn’t seen the realtor’s judgemental stare as he’d lit his cigarette outside the mansion. He turned his back, taking in the vista of rolling green fields and the distant forest. It was the kind of sight that made him feel oddly claustrophobic. He preferred the flexibility, the movement, of London. Strike looked back at the window. The agent had disappeared, just as Robin exited the house.

“All good?”

Robin smiled and walked over to him. “Take a look,” she showed him the pictures on her phone that she’d taken of the third floor; his leg had protested to the steep climb of stairs and so he’d waited outside for her. “I think that’s the same art on the walls as they were selling on that secret eBay page—”

“Kept a few pieces for themselves.” He took a drag, looked up at the high windows above them. “How was the master suite?”

She flicked through some pictures for him. “Not too shabby, is it?” It was a palatial bedroom, with two large walk-in closets, an ensuite…

He raised his eyebrows. “Is that a bathtub, next to the bed?”

“Oh, of course, ” she laughed, zooming in for him. “There’s a screen that can come down, but yeah. Can you imagine? You’d sit there, in bed— and what? Just watch me there in the bath?”

It seemed to take a second for her to realize, in the loud silence that followed, exactly what she’d said. At once her smile vanished; Strike caught the flash of sheer mortification on her face before she turned her back on him and pocketed her phone. He would’ve laughed, but the scenario Robin had conjured had involuntarily entered into his own imagination with considerable detail…

“Let’s head back,” he said abruptly, stomping out his cigarette.

“Great.” She pulled on her gloves and climbed into the driver’s seat, checking the map again briefly as Strike pulled himself into his seat. Then they were off, the property they’d driven so far to see slowly disappeared into the tree-lined laneway behind them.

Strike watched Robin with interest as she maneuvered the Land Rover along the slightly bumpy terrain, noticed the small smile playing at her lips as she looked at the cows poking their heads through the wire gates of the narrow road.

“You like being out here.” He’d meant it as a question, but it ended up more a statement of fact.

“Hm?”

“You know…” He gestured out the window. “In the country.”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged, non-committal. “I suppose it feels like home to me, in a way.”

He wondered suddenly if the unnamed man she was seeing had a similar upbringing, if they’d already taken cosy weekend trips hiking through the forest, if the memory of it was making her expression warm like that. In his mind’s eye he suddenly saw her and this still-faceless but broad shouldered man in some distant future, clad in matching wellies and walking their dogs through the fields— and Robin, just happy.

He checked the glove compartment to see if there were any snacks left, found their last packet of biscuits and took two. “Ever want to move back?”

She looked at him, faintly surprised.

“Oh, I love London.”

“Do you?” He wasn’t sure why he was pushing it.

“Of course,” she said quickly, stealing another glance at him. She shook her head at his biscuit offering, then asked into a deliberately casual tone, “Charlotte has a place out in the Cotswolds, doesn’t she?”

It was a habit she’d picked up in the last few months, to casually reveal her awareness of these small elements of Charlotte’s life— and, by extension, of his too. As though it was all common knowledge that was exchanged in everyday conversation and could be remarked upon like the weather.

But then these things were so conveniently, frustratingly discoverable to her. The fact that she could just blithely read in some lower-tier tabloid that he and his girlfriend were among the attendees at some charity function a few weekends ago… whereas he had no idea of any of the ins and outs of Robin’s life… couldn’t guess would be spending the night when they got back to London— he felt an unpleasant twist in his stomach— it nettled him, to say the least. And of course, knowing that he had no right, no reason, to feel any of it just made it that much more irritating.

“A family property,” he answered, himself playing into his own usual routine— to downplay, to make it seem as though Robin had got it wrong, that her information wasn’t quite right, “Just outside Painswick.”

“You’d mentioned it,” she said hastily, evidently reading something off his expression. “Last month, when we were talking about that pub—”

“Oh. Right.”

“Well, it sounded nice.”

He didn’t answer. The truth was that particular house didn’t hold the coziest memories for he and Charlotte; it was the site of her first intervention, one that her family had roped Strike into participating in— it took years for him to recover her trust, to climb his way back into the position of her sole confidant, the only person she could believe would never betray her, the only one who was different.

“Cormoran…” Robin interrupted his thoughts, in a tone so suddenly stiff and proper that it caused him to sit up slightly and look over at her. “I’ve been thinking about the last few months, and the future. I— I wanted to say—”

“—Watch it!” A car had come hurtling at full speed from around a bend in the narrow lane. Despite there likely being enough space for both to pass, Robin slowed slightly and moved to allow a bit more clearance,

“I am.” The car passed and she resumed her speed, glancing in the mirror as the Audi disappeared behind a bend. “God, what an idiot.”

A silence lingered, and Robin’s moments-ago attempt to broach some obviously serious topic seemed to echo in the space between them. An icy sense of foreboding started to edge up on him, the thought that had tickled the edges of his mind in the last few days surfacing despite himself. He knew he ought to ask her to continue, to finish her thought, but…

Regardless, he didn’t have long to think it over, because the next few seconds became a permanent blur in his memory— Robin’s sudden exclamation of surprise, the sight of the second car in front of them, the quick sound of scraping metal, the full twisting lurch that flung them forward before slamming back in their seats again as Robin braked sharply.

Strike, who for some reason in the confusion of the moment had been certain that the windscreen was about to shatter in front of them, had needlessly flung his arm in front of Robin; now that their vehicle had come to a full stop he found, as though suddenly coming back into consciousness, that he was awkwardly and inexplicably now gripping Robin’s arm as though holding her in place.

She was looking at him. “Are you alright?”

He dropped his hand. “No— yeah. M’fine.” All things considered, he was. It was a sudden intense hit of adrenaline, an unexpected shock to his system that took a moment to recalibrate, but that was it. “Thought we crashed or something.”

“It’s okay,” she said, and he was grateful she seemed to understand without explanation that his senses had been so overwhelmed he had no clear idea of what happened. “Came close, but I just had to pull to the verge… sorry… We didn’t even swipe each other.”

“I heard something scrape the door…” He twisted his body to look behind them.

“Just a branch. It’ll hardly be the worst scratch this thing has seen. I’ll check when we get back to London.” She hesitated, her hands on the wheel, evidently wondering if he was up to keep going.

He settled back in his seat. “I’m fine, seriously. You’re okay?”

“Yes.” She pulled back onto the road and smiled. “Aside from you nearly hitting my face, of course.”

Relieved she was willing to laugh about it, he grinned. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“It was as though you were trying to grab the wheel,” she mused.

Strike busied himself looking through the rucksack— he found a chocolate bar and opened it. He hadn’t been aiming to touch the wheel of course; even in the rush of a sudden surge of panic he’d known he’d been driven by some other instinct, with an illogical certainty that the glass around them was about to fly towards her… “I dunno. Wasn’t thinking.”

“Well, anyway.” She shrugged. “No harm done.”

***

Strike insisted that Robin park the Land Rover near her flat; he would take a taxi from there. It was getting late and, after a full day of driving, far too arduous to navigate the busier streets near their office. It was raining at that point, a cold drizzle.

“Come in for a few minutes, you can call a taxi from inside,” she said as they grabbed their bags.

It had been a while since they’d spent a day together like this, just the two of them, and he wasn’t altogether sorry that they didn’t have to part ways just yet.

The last time he had been in her flat was months ago, briefly, and at the time she was still getting settled. He was pleased to see it now, looking more lived in … he always found he enjoyed places that bore the evidence of her presence, felt he could relax into them. The exception being, perhaps, that house on Albury Street…

“Looks good,” he nodded, as Robin took off her jacket, recognizing some of the pieces that Ilsa had sold her for a low price— a small bookshelf, an old armchair.

“Tea?” Robin gestured towards the kitchen and he followed her. “Or… let me check.” She reached into the fridge, and triumphantly held up some cans of lager. He chuckled.

“The mark of a great host.”

“Yeah, those are my flatmate’s— left over from his party last weekend. So drink that quickly.” She poured herself a small glass of wine and sat down across from him.

“Cheers,” he said, tipping his can towards her. “Should I be insulted you haven’t invited me to one of these parties, then?”

Robin smiled and rolled her eyes. “I don’t even invite myself. Last weekend I said I had plans, but took my laptop to The Tottenham and worked there until I could sneak back in.”

He laughed, was about to say, _You should’ve called me, I would’ve met you there_ , before he realized that of course, he couldn’t have done so, given that he would’ve been halfway across the city that night. They drank in silence for a few minutes.

He glanced at the yoga mat rolled up against a door frame. “Keeping up with that, are you?”

“I… well, sometimes…” she began, before clocking the grin on his face. “Oh, stop it. How’s the swimming going?”

“Went last week,” he said, not disclosing that it was the first time he’d been in a month and a half. She threw him a skeptical look. “Charlotte has a pass to a health club, makes it easier.”

“Ah,” she nodded, glancing quickly at her watch. He wondered suddenly if she had somewhere to go, maybe even someone to see. He supposed he should call that taxi.

“When’s your flatmate due home?”

Robin traced her thumb along the condensation on her glass, apparently not having heard him. “Was Charlotte— er, did you two have plans this weekend? I guess I never asked before—”

“No. This comes first, anyway. Work, I mean.”

There was a brief silence and he was aware what simmered, unspoken, between them— his small slip-ups in the last few months, or at least what Robin must see as notable aberrations in their typical protocol, all of which would clearly lead her to question if this was, in fact, still his priority.

“I wanted—”

“It’s not—”

They both paused.

“I wanted to say, earlier, when we were driving,” she continued slowly, “That I didn’t want— that despite… I mean…”

Her tone had the halting formality of someone who was stumbling through a speech that had been carefully rehearsed. He suddenly wished he’d already called the taxi.

“I just…” She took a breath. “I wanted you to know that despite anything going on in your personal life, or mine, I haven’t stopped respecting you, as my partner—”

“Robin—”

“— and what we’ve done together. And whatever might happen, in— in the future—”

He looked up at her finally, his gaze locking with hers. “What’s going to happen?”

They stared at each other for a few long moments, and he felt a sudden flicker of anger and frustration. Whatever it was she was getting at, he wished she would just come out and say it. If this was the start of some _‘It’s been rewarding, but I need to pursue other opportunities’_ speech, if she indeed wanted to quit, so be it. But now she was looking at him imploringly, as though it was up to him to prompt it from her.

She faltered. “I don’t know. I just wanted you to know how I felt, I guess.”

“If things have been difficult these last few months—”

She flared up indignantly, her cheeks flushed. “I didn’t—”

“No— that’s not what I meant,” he interjected quickly, understanding her propensity for self-defensiveness around her job performance. “Look, Robin. You know… how important you are to me…”

“Please,” she groaned, looking suddenly miserable, “Don’t.”

That flicker of frustration burned even more hotly inside him. “What do you expect me to say?” he asked, trying and failing to keep the edge out of his voice.

Robin blinked. “Nothing,” she said bitterly, “I never expect you to say anything.”

Strike raised his eyebrows; it was the first time either of them had swung such a direct hit near enough to the wound that both of them kept pretending wasn’t there. The retort was on the tip of his tongue— _What’s that supposed to mean?_ — but he struggled to temper himself, to avoid taking the conversation to places they couldn’t come back from.

Both of them jumped at the sudden buzzing of her phone on the hard kitchen table; she grabbed it and looked at the screen, frowning. “One second”, she murmured, walking into the other room.

He could hear her voice, faintly, from the sitting room; to his annoyance, she sounded vaguely amused. _How much have you had to drink?_ … _Of course you can come here_ … Strike picked up his phone promptly and phoned for the taxi, making his way towards her front door.

Robin reappeared as he was shrugging on his jacket. “Car’s here,” he muttered.

“Cormoran?”

Evidently, she’d taken her hair out when she was on the phone in the next room. It had been up in a tight ponytail all day and he felt a unexpected but frustratingly pleasurable jolt in his lower stomach, seeing the way the soft red-gold waves fell around her face and over her bare shoulders. He resented the feeling.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll send you those pictures.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Of the art in the master suite. Let me know what you think.”

He nodded and waved. “Goodnight.”

***

If only the case they were working on had been causing them more trouble… then he might’ve been able to occupy his mind with other thoughts on the ride back to his flat. But as it stood, he replayed the last minute of his and Robin's conversation in his head, as though it was a case of its own.

_You know how important you are to me._ Of course, Robin was important to him. That was true. She had thought he was just offering platitudes. But there was a deeper truth in its omissions. His subconscious knew it, and now it was prodding him to recognize it fully. He wondered what it would’ve been, to have said that out loud to her: That she was, perhaps… or maybe, certainly… _the_ most important person in his life. That it was just an unavoidable fact. His world only moved now with Robin at its centre.

All that was, of course, a problem. He thought of the person who _should_ be the most important and significant in his life and felt only deep guilt. 

He had been accustomed, for so long, to orbiting around Charlotte. They had both acknowledged it, promised it to each other, that he was to be forever held by some magnetic force in her universe. And they had both assumed it was some immutable law of nature. Distortions and self-sabotage, love and trauma. And the issues with he and Charlotte existed all on their own, but Robin was so interwoven in his own consciousness that she was still there, at every thought, at every question.

He imagined explaining this to Robin but knew it was impossible. He’d destroyed that possibility efficiently enough. But what he was left with, he did, leaning forward and telling the driver the address of Charlotte’s flat, turning them in the opposite direction. 


	8. Chapter 8

Robin had tucked and re-tucked the spare sheets over the couch, fluffed the pillow, and set a small stool with a glass of water nearby. It wasn’t the first time in recent months her brother had called so late, all since he’d been spending more of his free time in London nightclubs, now seemingly desperate for a couch to crash on, drunk and unwilling to catch the late night train…

She might’ve worried about offending her flatmate, but Martin was always so surprisingly discreet, cleaning up and slipping out of the house before either of them had woken up, folding the sheets and washing any small dish he’d used, that she found herself wholly impressed and more willing to forget the drunken state that usually brought him to her doorstep.

“Thanks Rob,” he kissed her cheek as he entered, a good 10 minutes after she watched the last flash of the headlights of the taxicab that had whisked Cormoran away to… well, Charlotte’s surely.

“Wha’s wrong with you?” Martin grinned as he let himself into the sitting room, flopping on the familiar couch with ease, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Robin frowned. “Nothing.” But she couldn’t shake the frustration of it all, that sense that she still hadn’t got to say what she’d so carefully planned. She’d even rehearsed it in her mirror, for God’s sake, but somehow once she got in front of him her words just…

She turned to Martin. “Are you hungry?”

“Always.”

“I have… toast.”

“Better than nothing.”

“Yeah, it is,” she said warningly, but smiled as they made their way to the kitchen, where she and Strike had been sitting just minutes earlier. With a drop in her stomach, she saw her empty wine glass and Strike’s lager, on the table where they had left them. Robin moved swiftly to gather them up, but Martin had surely clocked the scene and Robin’s flushing cheeks, and he sat down with a laugh.

“Oy, you should’ve said something! What did I interrupt?”

“Shutup. Look, there’s the toaster. You can manage yourself, can’t you?” Robin rinsed her glass in the sink, her back turned, then grabbed the bottle Strike had just held in his large hand, toasted her with, that friendly warm look in his eye, and she wished suddenly he could’ve just stayed and stayed and drank with her more and then been here the next morning, when she would wake up and roll over in bed to find him there next to her and— and— she was still holding the empty lager and staring at it. _Jesus, is it still that bad? Weren’t things moving on nicely?_ She opened the cupboard and dropped the bottle in the glass bin unceremoniously.

Martin was looking at her curiously when she turned back around. She rolled her eyes, grabbing the bread herself, as if to make a show of it.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not that hungry. So, who was here?”

“Nothing. No one.”

“Dunno why you’re being so secretive about it.”

“Do I ask you who you’re out with?”

“No, but you can.”

Robin sighed, watching as the edges of bread turned brown under the toaster lights. “I imagine if you want me to know, you’d tell me.” She looked at him. “Do you want to?”

“Nothing to tell, just been clubbing with mates from home, mostly.”

“That’s what I assumed.” The toaster popped. Robin buttered it in silence, then sat down at the table as she slid the plate towards him. Martin was still regarding her closely, not touching the food in front of him.

“Wasn’t Matthew was it?”

She spluttered in genuine shock. “Matt— what? When?”

Martin watched her darkly, apparently unperturbed by what he obviously considered only a show of surprise. “You haven’t been meeting up with Matthew? He wasn’t just here, alone, with you, having a drink?”

Robin laughed. “No, definitely not. Look, it was just my boss—“

“Strike?”

“Yes, we had just come in and— we were discussing the case. It happens. He just left, actually.”

This seemed an eminently more attractive scenario to Martin. “Should’ve asked him to stick around, I’d’ve liked to say hello.”

“Hm.” Robin tried to imagine persuading Cormoran to postpone his plans to meet his gorgeous and patiently waiting girlfriend so that he might instead have her, Robin’s, drunken younger brother regale him with stories of scoring bottle service at whatever trendy club they’d managed to find their way into tonight.

“Well, almost anyone’d be better than Matthew, anyway,” he said through a mouthful of toast.

Robin frowned, taking in what he’d said. “Better than— he wasn’t here as a… we’re colleagues. And he has a girlfriend.”

He was still smiling.

“Can you shutup?” she repeated. 

“I didn’t say anything.” He shrugged, picking up the last crust and popping it in his mouth. “I just think— no, I _know_ — he fancies you.”

Robin felt her heart drop in her chest. She got up and started needlessly wiping down the counters. “Martin, you talk so much crap when you’re—“

“Anytime I’ve seen you two together, it’s like he just _proper_ stares at you. It’s a bit embarrassing, really. And if I didn’t know any better, he even thinks you’re funny. _You_. I’m serious, though, Robin. Look, as a man, I can sense these things, alright?”

Robin refrained from comparing her brother’s amateur drunken boyishness with whatever it was that governed Strike’s desires. “You know who you sound like? Matthew.”

He snorted. “That’s low,” he muttered, but didn’t push the issue.

“As a matter of fact,” Robin slid into the seat across from her brother. “I’d just been trying to talk to him about making sure he knows where I stand, how much I value the boundaries between us, the professionalism of everything.”

Martin looked suddenly out of his depth, evidently not used to offering career advice. “Yeah, alright.”

“We need mechanisms to evaluate how our cases are progressing, we need.. we need clear rules about personal time, and— and those are just some of the things I’d been trying to discuss with him today." 

His gaze flickered towards the sitting room and his waiting makeshift bed, but he looked back at Robin patiently. “You’re not happy?”

It was the first time someone had asked her that so plainly. And it hurt simply because she didn’t know how to answer. “I am, but I— I don’t know. I love the work. All of it, even the boring parts, the desk jobs. I love hi—” She choked. “I love— um. It’s great working together.”

“You love him,” Martin repeated, and his face was mercifully free of any semblance of teasing or laughter.

“As my partner,” she gasped. “I love working with him.”

“So what’s the problem?” He looked at her. “Something’s wrong.”

Some last defence seemed knocked down suddenly; Robin hadn’t even known it was so vulnerable. Maybe she’d needed someone to talk to more than she’d thought. “It’s difficult,” she said slowly, horrified to find that tears stung at her eyes; she blinked furiously. “In this job, the personal and professional, they keep… overlapping.” Robin sighed, drumming her fingers on the surface of her small, makeshift kitchen table. “Sometimes I’ve thought about a fresh start.” She swallowed, hard. “I have friends with the police, and… there have been some discussions, but—”

“So go for it,” he shrugged.

Robin had to sigh at her brother’s signature over-simplistic view of any life struggle. Choose on a whim. Do what you want. Be happy. Still, as frustrating as his attitude could be, it was, at times, strangely comforting in its absence of any sense of anxiety.

“Look, Rob,” he leaned back in his seat and yawned. “Think of how far you’ve come, eh? Seriously. You can do anything. Why are you so afraid to go for what you want? You deserve to be happy, not to cater to what anyone else expects of you. If something doesn’t feel right, trust your instinct. Go for it.”

Robin didn’t speak for a few moments, considering this carefully. “Yeah, alright.” She nodded at him. “Now get to bed. You’ve got an early train to catch, don’t you?”

“Yes, and you’ve sobered me right up with that bread and your depressing attitude.”

“You’re welcome.”


End file.
